


helmet

by hoverbun



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Gen, Headcanon, Pre-MGS3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoverbun/pseuds/hoverbun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Too good to be true' is how he'd describe the way they treated him--as if he was going to become the hero of the country. Now he shifts uncomfortably on a steel bench and awaits a call, to approach the craft. It's now he looks at the word painted onto his helmet, in a language he does not know but is lawfully told to speak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	helmet

Bei.

It means nothing, actually. The breve that sits atop the third letter is missing, a mistake not on his behalf, now. They’ll tell the questioning scientists that overlook the project that he wanted to show patriotism and made a small mistake, “typical, from someone in the south, but it’s the thought that counts.”

He lets go of the glass helmet and balances it in his lap to flex his fingers. The rubber is unpleasant and pinches the skin between his fingers, and he shifts uncomfortably on the bench. His dark hair is pressed down on his forehead, his reflection is seen off the helmet—he’d rather none of this be on him, back in civilian clothes (or even _work_ clothes), but that won’t be allowed until after the craft returns safely and the test is positive.

It’s a test; they’ve drilled that into his head. Not from the start, no, in the beginning they were telling him he’d be regarded as a hero of the USSR, and a hero of Georgia. The former is a title he’d throw away like food wrappings—it is the later that had set off a flare in his heart, the thought of becoming a torch burning with hope to his homeland. Get them through this dark period. The excitement waned when he found out about a man from Smolensk Oblast, and how it’s a test, he’s testing the compartment, he’s going to test it for the next man, it’s a test, it’s a test, it’s a test.

He’s trying to replace the betrayed feeling with the attitude it’s just a regular job, but such thoughts don’t calm the feeling of being lied to.

But is he surprised? Why did he hold hope that they would ask a ' _lesser being_ ' to become a hero of the Union? It’s only now he silently curses his clouded judgement, distracted with the thought of making his country lift their heads and watch in awe as they came closer to being called people.

Bei.

It’s mocking him, really.

He misses the red, black and white pin he managed to press against the suit. One of the officials in charge of this test (chewing on the inside of his cheek, head tucked down when the green eyes bore against his small frame, and even with hushed patriotism swirling around his thoughts like a wind storm he manages to mutter a Russian apology, mercy in Russian) observed the emblem prior, and informed him of some bullshit safety requirement. “The metal this is made of, it could interfere with circuitry.” Silver tongued devil.

He put up a bit of an argument. Never was a man to keep quiet when his identity was questioned. He questions if there’s a chance he can bring something along for the trip, in case things go… unfavorably. Wrong, even. Green met blue and it’s a blessing his face didn’t go red from fury or embarrassment when the officer smiles with an unwelcoming eyebrow raise, and he drawled out “I will ask.”

Modifications to the suit came in the form of a word in white plastered over the front of his helmet. Bei. The designer got it wrong, but it apparently translates into “to hit”. Their pleased smiles reflect a bitter symbolism as they hand the future cosmonaut his new helmet, and it takes everything out of him to fake thankfulness.

It’s not like he was looking for a pocket to tuck his emblem in, after all. Something less painful than a word in a language he does not speak written in front of his face, though.

But he’s not surprised. Not at all. With these politicians, all they get out of him is a slightly raised expression, only wondering if he’s seen it all yet.

The intercom beckons him, referring to his Russian name as opposed to his real one. Bile is swallowed down and he slips on the helmet. ‘БЕИ’ reads backwards in front of him, and he peers through the ‘N’ to the next room.


End file.
